i read The English Roses yesterday and i found that i identified with the one character Binah. she is all made fun of by the popular girls ‘cos they are jealous of her and then they have this gay dream where they go to her house and see her cleaning up after her blue-collar dad and making dinner and the popular girls realise they are worthless cunts and then they start doing binah’s chores for her. i suggest you go to a bookstore and read it for free like i did. madonna wrote it, she didn’t draw it. well maybe she did. anyway. binah is all lonely and wears knee socks and she is smart and i am kinda like that and as a defense-mechanism i make fun of myself and have a “sense of humor” about not having girlfriends to rely on and do my chores for me so i hang out with boys and get them to do my chores instead and talk to my mum while i roll my eyes and flip out about them talking because i am watching survivor and no my dad isn’t blue-collar like binah’s though if he were i would be fine by it. he works really hard at what he does and i do absolutely nothing whatsoever.
imagine if i were your daughter all of a sudden one day like if they made a reality show of me living with you for a week and you weren’t allowed to hit me when i pissed you off so you had to try and “fix” and “enlighten” and “mentor” me and make me into a “proper lady” – how long you imagine before you drowned yourself in a lake?
the way it was written is very douglas coupland, the script, very, i-hate-my-culture. it made me want to be cynical, more than i already am and walk around in a messed-up work shirt with blood on my lips.
feh.
something is wrong with my audioblogger thing-a-ling. there are ludes and ludes of mentalpatientraymi recordings out there that i am waiting on.
before fight club, mark and i were dancing around to tarantino songs and i started smoking a cig in a slow-motion cool way when the zed’s dead song came on and i brought up the you notice when a song is on everything gets cooler in the room discussion and we got to talking about it for awhile until some ole lady banged on his door for us having beastie boys videos blaring simultaneously with tarantino movie songs and he was like, i am going to be evicted and i said was that your first noise complaint ever? how old was she? was she mad? what was the expression on her face?
mark goes well, i cut her off before she could even tell me to turn down the music, i said, MUSIC TOO LOUD?
mark also said something wrong to an old guy in the elevator about how yeh he is new to the apartment and yes he is young and then we started laughing uncomfortably and exited the elevator and i said um did you really just tell that guy you were young where the fuck did that come from? mark says yeh i know, “Yes i am new to the planet and i am young!”
it’s ‘cos every tenant in the place is a hundred years old and their cars in the underground garage have thick dirty dust on ‘em and flat tires. the landlord is eighty and very nice and thinks i am a silly prostitute because i wear ridiculous furry winter hats and flamboyant jackets and i am always smiling awkward polite prostitute smiles at him because that is what julia roberts did in pretty woman ‘cos she knows she is not suppose to be in that fancy hotel.
me on the other hand, i know that everyone in mark’s apartment is old and i am not so old and that i have every right to be there and it is just a mistake that i am of the female-persuasion and i usually have a six-pack hidden under my jacket anyway so i figure if i smile and not say much, that makes me invisible?
ok i already forgot where i was going with this so, good morning, expect more posts all day long in-between me knitting the whole town fancy sweaters because that is what i do.
when you are a dirtbag, you do all of your laundry at the same time or you don’t do it at all. there is no such thing as separate wash loads for different-colored articles of clothing and fabric-materials and delicates. though, sometimes dirtbags are forced to do multiple loads simply because one cannot possibly fit everything into the washer all at once because the machine starts slam-dancing against the wall and screams up the stairs that it is going to make itself fall apart if you don’t turn it off and divy up your stank-ass loser clothes, post-effin’-haste.
when you are a dirtbag you have to sometimes make like you are not a dirtbag and you make everyone else feel awkward and uncomfortable because they make a point to shower everyday and make an effort not to have greasy hair and wear clean underwear but there you are walking around flaunting your i-don’t-give-a-crapness in their face and they are all, i hate him.
and there is this oh shit they know that i know that they know that i am a dirtbag orange-glow that floats all around you at your table and so you have to be loud and boisterous and make your i-don’t-give-a-crapness presence better known like excuse me everyone not sitting at my table, you should all be paying attention to over here RIGHT NOW because OVER HERE there is a lot of nihilistic-coolness happening.
shit.
dirtbag and hipster are two very, very close things, pretty much the same thing, almost, sort of.
equally annoying is what i mean. but what isn’t these days?
golf shirts, for example.
annoying.
though i wear them from time to time.
also.
people who hold doors open for other people just to make everyone in a coffeeshop feel bad for not holding the door, and basically making us all look like the assholes that we are, that, is considered annoying.
though when it is a friend of yours who does it, you are not allowed to be annoyed.
but, you are allowed to tell off your friend when they get back to your table and express that you are thoroughly-dissapointed in them for making everybody feel bad and that you think the only way in which to rectify the situation is to individually apologize to every person in the coffeeshop for being so damn selfish and to especially apologize to the person the door was held-open for in the first place because it is wrong to make one think they are allowed to gloat all day long about a random act of kindness that happened to them by way of fluke.
make sure you get this point across to your friend and that they fully understand that holding doors open for strangers is misleading, and very, very mean, cruel, and dangerous and you should chastise your friend about this for the rest of the day and make up elaborate stories about people getting hurt real bad and being forced to starve themselves and stand naked in the snow until your friend tells you to fuck off altogether.
and that’s when you say, “I’m bored. Quit boring me.”
haha.
ok back to dirtbags.
this was suppose to be a guide to dirtbags but i am annoyed thinking about the subject right now and i am sure you all know how to be a dirtbag anyway though a funny little guide i could put together easily enough for you but you would go, unnngh, that is SO annoying of her to tell ME how to be what i already am.
now i just want to write about things that i am annoyed by and say “pfft” after every sentence.
maybe i’ll do that later.
i am hanging out with eryn tonite. his ex-gf is a dumb tit and i will inevitably write all about this scandalous gossip because i am a busy-body and i feed off other people’s pain and anger and i get angry when they get angry because i come from the nation of RageAngeria.
now mark just called and was all should i go to this gramma’s house or that gramma’s house or should i stay in and read about dungeons&dragons and i said let’s all hang out together even though eryn doesn’t know it yet and you guys have never met and i am always the girl hanging out with the boys and making them be friends because that is just the way it is and if you ever see me out in public with a girl she is either my mum, related to me, or i just met her and we will prolly never hang out again unless pre-arranged by mutual friends and she never calls me and i think about her a lot.
i wrote there today, earlier, and this is a picture of a picture of me awhile ago. i am thinking about doing something spectacular with my hair soon. i’m growing bored of myself again. i am thinking of going to school. gasp. learning how to talk to people without nervously fiddling with a hair-elastic and staring at the floor school. learning how to be confident again, without alcohol. learning how to cope. learning how to be happy and how to appreciate what i’ve got and counting my blessings.
nah.
marketing/advertising is what i think i’ll do and i will still be shy and weird in the back and not talk to anyone.
